


I Begged For Movement

by CCs_World



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Broken Bones, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fear of Flying, Fluff and Angst, Flying, Is it still a wingfic if they canonically have wings, Love Confessions, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Fall - Freeform, Wingfic, crawley origin story, i didn't tag graphic violence bc i don't think it's that graphic, it's what they deserve, lots of discussions of past physical trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21752236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCs_World/pseuds/CCs_World
Summary: There is a ritual to the casting out of a rebellious angel, a ritual which was perfected during the Great Rebellion. When angels first began to drop through the firmament during the first war ever staged, they would try to fly back. Many succeeded, grasping onto the edges of the holes, wings flapping desperately as they tried to pull themselves back up. So the ones doing the casting out decided to prevent these rejects from crawling back into Heaven.OR: When Crowley-Who-Was-Not-Yet-Crowley fell, he landed on his back.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 175





	I Begged For Movement

**Author's Note:**

> takin a break from my professors au bc that's complicated and it's finals week!!!! this was just a soft little stress relief fic i wrote bc i got super inspired at 1 am like 2 nights ago. anyway this fic does discuss demons having fucked-up wings and being unable to fly so if this isn't ur cuppa tea then just slide on outta here!
> 
> the title is a line from levi the poet's amazing slam poem "chapter three: the great american game" which is such a viscerally crowley poem that i could not resist using it. please go listen to it it will make u feel things.
> 
> anyway i hope u enjoy this (and be on the lookout for this as a podfic as well uwu because that WILL happen soon)

Before we start this story, it is important to know how an angel Falls. There is a ritual to the casting out of a rebellious angel, a ritual which was perfected during the Great Rebellion. When angels first began to drop through the firmament during the first war ever staged, they would try to fly back. Many succeeded, grasping onto the edges of the holes, wings flapping desperately as they tried to pull themselves back up. So the ones doing the casting out decided to prevent these rejects from crawling back into Heaven.

The ritual is thus: when an angel is deemed unfit to remain in Heaven, they are cornered, disarmed, and restrained. This restraining often is in the form of holy chains, awful, rough, tight things which chafe at the throat and wrists and ankles of the angel. Then, once the failed angel has been brought low, their wing joints are wrenched from the socket of the shoulder and the fragile bones of their ulna and radius are snapped in half, cruelly shattered. Their screams are ignored.

Finally, and probably worst of all, their halo, that glittering crown of light above their head, is shattered, and the angel is kicked into the pit, chains and all, their maimed wings fluttering uselessly.

Sometimes, if a fallen angel cares for their wings properly, they can nurse their limbs back into some semblance of usage, and might be able to spread their wings fully without pain someday. Sometimes, if a fallen angel takes great care to splint the shattered bone and re-locate the joint of their humerus into their shoulder once more, they will be able to soar for a short time.

Most often, however, the limbs are damaged beyond any form of repair, either in the original Shattering or in the Fall itself.

Sometimes, the Fall does even more damage than the Shattering.

* * *

When Crowley-Who-Was-Not-Yet-Crowley fell, he landed on his back. The last breath of Heaven whooshed out of his lungs, through the globs of blood in his throat from screaming, begging for forgiveness, for a second chance. He laid there, wheezing for breath, coughing out blood, tears leaking from his acid-stain eyes, before trying slowly to sit up. His wings and shoulders and spine twinged painfully and he hissed in a breath that smelled of sulphur and smoke as he collapsed back down onto the ground.

A sob caught in his throat. Everything hurt. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t call for help. Who would hear him? Who would help him?

“All I did was ask questions,” he rasped, quiet and broken and barely-there. “All I did was ask why.”

He laid there for centuries, until his bones had fused painfully into a poor imitation of wholeness, until he was able to sit up from his prone, sprawled position on the ground. He pulled himself to his knees, his spine screaming in protest, his wings trailing on the ground behind him, as he made his crawling, dragging way to where Lucifer sat waiting for the last of His army to assemble.

“Serpent,” Lucifer purred, His voice smooth and gentle, His smile a facsimile of gentleness. “Look at you. The Fall seems to have hit you a lot harder than your siblings.”

The Serpent nodded, sulphur-yellow eyes dull and filled with anguish.

“Can’t you walk, little one?” Lucifer asked. His voice was like honey—sweet but full of sharp things.

The Serpent shook his head.

“Aww,” Lucifer crooned. “Look at you, crawling on your belly. Do you have a name yet, little one?”

The Serpent shook his head again.

“Well then,” Lucifer said decisively. “I have just the name for you.”

“What is it?” the Serpent rasped. A name? He hadn’t had a name in centuries. What had his name been?

What had his name been?

“Crawley,” Lucifer declared. “You shall be called the demon Crawley.”

“Crawley.” It curled weird and serpentine around the demon’s forked tongue. “Okay.” They looked up at Lucifer. “What should I do, Lord?”

Lucifer made a contemplative face. “Mother’s new favorites are having a lovely time in Her Garden. Why don’t you get up there and make some trouble for me?”

“M-me?” Crawley asked, voice still rough, coming out as a hiss. Black scales rippled across his face and down his bare shoulders. “Why me?”

“Because… I remember you,” Lucifer said, a slow grin growing on His face. “The Asker of Questions. The Philosopher.”

The Serpent’s gaze dropped to the floor.

“Do not be ashamed, little Snake,” Lucifer hummed. “It is because you love to question that I’m going to send you up there. Share this skill with the humans. Maybe make them question Her.”

Crawley glanced up. “Why?”

“Because,” Lucifer said, a dangerous undertone to His voice, “She played favorites with them, and I want to take them away.”

Crawley considered this. “Alright,” he said slowly. He concentrated, and then his body shifted into a long, lithe thing. The pain was concentrated into his central spine in this form, and he found it brought some small relief to his aching bones. “I’ll just… go up there and make some trouble, shall I?”

“Precisely,” Lucifer said, sitting back in His throne.

And the Serpent dug up through the earth and slithered into Eden.

* * *

Crawley eventually learned how to walk instead of crawl, and by the time the flood came he was wobbly but able to navigate the world on two legs instead of as a Serpent. But no matter how much time passed, the pain never left him, and his wings never fully unfurled.

The day of the Almostpocalypse, at the air base, Crowley spread his wings fully, ignoring how they screamed in pain, and he clutched his tire iron and Adam’s hand and ignored it. If this was to be his last day on Earth, by Someone he was going to spread his wings fully one final time.

And then the world didn’t end, and his wings, torn muscle and sinew and crooked bones, twinged awfully as if to remind him of how unnecessary his little show was that day.

When Aziraphale proposed they swap bodies to avoid death, Crowley screamed “NO!” so fast that Aziraphale took a step back. Crowley caught his breath and looked down, ashamed and afraid. “It’s only…” he began. “My wings. My... bones.”

Aziraphale paused. Pursed his lips. He knew already, of course, that Crowley’s wings were terrible, twisted, tangled things. He knew already that demons were flightless creatures, damned to shuffle on the ground and crawl through Hell instead of soaring through the Heavens. He knew already of Crowley’s pain, of the wobble in his walk, of the days he couldn’t even emerge from his bed because the pain was so deep and dreadful. There was a poignant, heavy silence. “Ah,” the angel said softly. Then, he took a deep breath. “Well. If you’ve been able to endure it for millennia, I’m sure I can take it for a day or two.”

But when they swapped, to their collective surprise, Crowley’s pain remained with Crowley. He was, in a sick way, relieved that Aziraphale didn’t have to feel what he felt, if only to avoid his pity, his  _ empathy. _ Demons don’t need empathy. Demons don’t  _ want _ empathy. And no matter how much he craved the kind look in Aziraphale’s eyes, the soft “my dear” from Aziraphale’s lips, he knew that demons don’t  _ deserve _ empathy, either.

And after the not-quite-end, after the swap, after the trials and the park and the Ritz, after a nightcap in the bookshop, Crowley rends his chest open and wrenches a confession from his burned-black heart. What he expects is shock, is fear, is some unspeakable horror in the angel’s hazel eyes. What he expects is pity, a condescending smile, a tut of a pink tongue and a shake of a blonde head. What he expects is to be led purposefully to the door of the bookshop and told to never return, lest he corrupt the angel with his poisonous love.

What comes instead, and what makes him flinch more than any of his expectations, is the angel making a small, broken noise and returning the confession with tears in his round eyes. What he doesn’t expect is the “oh, my  _ darling,” _ the reaching out of soft, pink hands, the unspeakably gentle caress of his face, and the touch of pillow-soft lips to his own.

Well. After all of that, after Armageddidn’t and Agnes’s prophecy and whispered confessions in the backroom of a bookshop, after a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square, after shared kisses and hushed apologies and unconditional forgiveness and slow, ethereal lovemaking, an angel and a demon moved in together.

Or, rather. They moved  _ out. _ Aziraphale realized that he didn’t  _ need _ a cover story or a reason to stay in London anymore. He realized he didn’t need to sell his books or open a shop to the public. He realized that after everything, the city was much too large and loud for a silly, quiet little angel. And Crowley, well. Crowley went wherever Aziraphale went.

So they bought a cottage and moved to the South Downs.

* * *

Now that we are caught up, let us see where our angel and demon are now. It has been two years since The Little Armageddon That Couldn’t, and an angel is watching from the window as his demon shouts at the shrubbery in their crowded, shivering garden. Crowley’s limp is especially pronounced today, but that doesn’t deter him one bit from making the rounds, wobbling his way around his extensive gardens as he brandishes a trowel and yells things Aziraphale can’t quite make out. A smile spreads on Aziraphale’s face, gentle and affectionate. He turns from the window and sets about making a cup of tea for Crowley to drink when he returns inside.

And return he does, the door banging open and Crowley calling out an enthusiastic, affectionate, “Angel!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale answers from the kitchen. “I have tea on for you, it’s the ginger kind you like.”

Crowley collapses dramatically in a chair at the kitchen table, legs sprawling out every which way. “This is why I love you,” he declares.

Aziraphale turns back to the cup of tea he’s discreetly added an extra spoon of honey to (Crowley always announces loudly and theatrically that he has no sweet tooth and tea tastes best without sweetener. Aziraphale knows that Crowley will only tolerate tea if it has a generous amount of honey or sugar in it). “And this,” he says, finishing stirring and handing the mug to Crowley, “is how I show that I love you in return.”

Crowley ducks his head a little, cheeks gone pink. “Hmmph,” he says, and takes a sip of tea.

“How are you feeling today?” the angel asks softly.

“I’ve had worse days.” The answer is dry, a pair of yellow eyes peeking over the rim of the black mug that says “I like my coffee like I like my men: strong, dark, and bitter.” It’s very ironic, considering Crowley has never liked men, only one particular angel, and said angel is soft, pink, and sweet. Crowley saw the mug and had to have it, precisely because of the irony. He loves it to this day, and laughs to himself every single time.

“Would a massage help? I can warm up the oil if you’d like,” Aziraphale offers.

Crowley shakes his head. “I’ll be alright. Definitely had worse, angel. Just… a hot pack and some Golden Girls, I think. I’ll be better tomorrow.”

Aziraphale nods. “Just so.” He bends and kisses Crowley’s forehead, because he can do that whenever he wants to now, and because he likes to see how red Crowley’s face goes. “Ah, we got a letter in the mail from Warlock today, darling…”

And thus the day passes.

After dinner, just as the sun is beginning to set, Aziraphale says, “Come, my love. Would you like to go on a walk?”

Crowley, with a small groan, stands from where he was sprawled in an armchair, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. His spine makes several audible popping noises which make Aziraphale wince. “Sure, angel,” he says, stretching. His shirt rides up slightly, and Aziraphale takes that moment to appreciate the stretch of skin put on display. Crowley is beautiful, and Aziraphale will never get over that.

“Are you sure? We don’t have to,” the angel clarifies. “If you hurt too much.”

“No, no,” Crowley says quickly. “I’d—I want to walk with you, angel.”

Aziraphale smiles softly. “Then let’s walk, my love.”

Crowley turns his face away abruptly, grumbling, one long-fingered hand reaching out to grab Aziraphale’s plump one. “Your love,” he mutters under his breath, and Aziraphale just smiles wider.

They stroll through the countryside, hand-in-hand, the rolling hills painted in golds and pinks as the sun gently touches the horizon. Crowley is only a little wobbly beside the angel, but Aziraphale is steady and sure beside him, and Crowley has no fear of falling.

They reach the limestone cliffs looking over the beach and stroll along the edge “It’s such a lovely evening,” Aziraphale sighs happily, staring up at the puffy, gold-bathed clouds above them.

“Mmm,” Crowley answers. He can’t stand to look at the clouds for too long. In this light, they look how Heaven used to, before he Fell.

“It’s perfect conditions for flying,” Aziraphale continues, and Crowley freezes beside him, sick feeling rising in his stomach.

The demon makes a strangled noise. “Y—yeah. Perfect weather for ffff.  _ Flying.” _ The word comes out as a hiss, some acid-stained syllables, burning and bleak in the mouth of a creature from Hell.

Aziraphale stops as well, and turns to look at Crowley. “Oh, my darling,” the angel says softly, and reaches out to cup Crowley’s chin in his hand, making the demon meet him with vulnerable yellow eyes. “Oh, my beautiful demon. I would never leave without you.” Then, he spreads his wings, catches Crowley up in his arms in a bridal carry (Crowley does  _ not _ yelp, thank you), and takes a leap off the edge of the cliff and into the sky.

His huge, powerful wings thud against the air as he beats them, his strong arms holding Crowley effortlessly as they rise higher and higher towards the golden clouds. Crowley clings onto Aziraphale for dear life, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders and hands gripping the fabric of his jumper as he buries his face in the angel’s shoulder and trembles. “Too high,” he mumbles against Aziraphale’s neck. “‘S too high up, angel, we’re gonna… we’re gonna…”

“Don’t worry, my darling,” Aziraphale soothes gently, wings carrying them ever higher, his arms strong and his body sturdy against Crowley, “I won’t let you fall. I’ve got you now.”

Crowley doesn’t look, can’t look, just squeezes his eyes tight shut and shoves his face tighter into the angel’s shoulder. He’s clammy with sweat and fear, his throat tight, his breathing ragged. He trusts Aziraphale, of course he does, but there’s still that visceral terror that lingers, inescapable, around his memories of the Fall.

Eventually, he feels them stop rising, Aziraphale spreading his wings and fluttering them gently to keep them suspended in the air. “Open your eyes, my love, and look around.”

Crowley removes his face from Aziraphale’s jumper and tentatively opens his eyes. His breath hitches in his throat, and he wants to close his eyes again, but he can’t stop looking.

He never thought he’d see this again. Stretching for miles are the tops of clouds, painted pink and gold by the setting Sun, rolling gently over each other as they’re pushed by gentle currents of air. “Oh,” he says softly, overcome. A sob forces its way through his constricting throat, and he chokes out another “Oh.”

“I know, love,” Aziraphale says, staring out at the sea of clouds. “It’s like a dream.”

Crowley nods dumbly. His eyes sting dangerously.

“Come,” the angel murmurs, shifting his grip on Crowley minutely, “bring out your wings, dearheart. Let them feel the wind again.”

Crowley hesitates for a moment. He knows how his wings look. But, then again, Aziraphale has seen his wings before, and although he wept over them, Crowley knows that Aziraphale has never thought less of him because of his twisted, mangled wings. So, Crowley shifts the wings into this plane and spreads them as far as they’ll go without hurting himself.

He gasps as the wind passes over his feathers, and his eyes fill with tears he’d never admit to shedding. “It feels like…” he starts, and then doesn’t finish. He scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Angel, I feel…”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s cheek, and then he begins to fly once more, dodging and weaving between huge cumulus clouds, holding Crowley close to his body as he soars. “Feel the currents on your wings,” the angel says, his voice filled with sunshine and joy. “Isn’t it lovely, darling? Doesn’t it feel perfect?”

Crowley spreads his tattered wings a little further and he  _ feels _ it, he feels the way the air passes between his feathers and across the tops of his wings. He closes his eyes and it almost feels as if he’s flying by himself again, soaring through Heaven with his fellow angels. He laughs, lets out a shout of exhilaration, and he’s not sure if the wetness on his cheeks are from crying or just the wind making his eyes water. He doesn’t think it matters.

There’s a warmth in his chest, an elated energy, and it feels like love and like cocoa and like nights spent by the fireplace, Aziraphale stroking his hair and reading poetry as Crowley dozes in his lap. It feels like hearing children laughing in the village square and like the ocean crashing against the distant shore. It feels like a summer thunderstorm and the smell of biscuits in the oven. It feels like  _ home. _

In a burst of overwhelming  _ feeling, _ of love and joy and hope and wonder, Crowley spreads his wings fully, the wind catching in them and pulling them taut, and he drags himself from Aziraphale’s arms and hovers in the air currents by himself. He spreads his arms, ignoring the pain, ignoring the fear and the awful memories, and he laughs until he’s sobbing, and then his wings creak threateningly and he folds them with another laugh. “Angel!” he calls as he begins to plummet, his grin brighter than the last rays of the Sun. “Catch me, love!”

And he dives.

* * *

They land gently, Crowley once more in Aziraphale’s arms, both of them out of breath and trembling with exhilaration. “That was…” Crowley starts, and then he wipes not-so-discreetly at his face and tries again. “Angel, that…”

“It was marvellous,” Aziraphale sighs. “But don’t do that again,” he adds scoldingly. “You frightened me for a moment, darling! I wasn’t sure if I could catch up in time to catch you.” Gently, he sets Crowley on his feet once more and plants a kiss on his cheek, then his forehead. “Are you at all hurt? You spread your wings all the way, I know how that hurts you.”

Crowley grimaces. “I don’t want to think about it. That was… reckless of me, I’ve gotta admit.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you always doing reckless things? Rescuing an angel from the Bastille? Running into burning bookshops? Facing down Satan with a tire iron?”

“You’re one to talk,” Crowley grins. “You’re the only angel I know to possess a human. Plus, don’t forget, I may be a demon, but  _ you _ lied to God’s face, not me.”

Aziraphale smacks his arm lightly. “Oh, you—you—you  _ fiend,” _ he laughs. “Come, let’s go home. I could do with some cocoa right now.”

“And I could do with some more tea, and a lot of kisses from a certain angel whom I love,” Crowley says, and he only limps a little as he and his angel walk back to the cottage to indulge in the things they love best: each other.

**Author's Note:**

> im @morosexual-aziraphale on tumblr if u wanna say hi! leave kudos if u liked this and drop a comment if u wanna make my day! always let ur content creators know that u like their content, we do this for free!


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